Tenacity and Compassion
by xerenles
Summary: Yanna reflects on the tenets of the Light during one of her last days in Andorhal.


Sunshine streamed merrily into the cell Yanna shared with Sister Catherine. She watched the breeze ruffle the leaves of the maple trees outside, turning the white undersides of the leaves to the sky, it would rain soon. Though the sky looked blue, those trees never lied.

_Perhaps __the__ sky __is__ dark __where __I__ cannot __see_, she licked her lips uncomfortably.

Five years ago she had gone to the Abbey seeking lessons to begin to enter service with the The Church of Light. Three years ago, she became a lay priestess working with the church in Andorhal - how happy she had been to see her mother again! Unfortunately, her mother had not been pleased with her occupation. She remembered the pleading look her mother had given her well, "_Forsake __your __vows__..."_

Maybe she should have, it might have been nice to have had a family, but she couldn't have seen herself ever choosing a different path - not for the most handsome farmhand nor the richest of noblemen. No, Yanna was quite married to her calling but now she had doubts. She felt shamed by it.

_Don__'__t __feel __guilty_, she reasoned, _all __men __question__ themselves __when __they_-

A faint scratching sound was at her door, Yanna would not have answered it even if she had not been too feeble to rise from her bed. She rubbed the wooden beads on her rosary uneasily. The scratching at the door grew louder. Tears leaked from her eyes, though she dare not sob aloud.

_This__ is __it__, __this __time __the __door __will __break __and __I __will __die_, she thought miserably. _Respect__. __Tenacity__. __Compassion__. __Tenacity__. __Tenacity__. __Tenacity__._ She rubbed the beads harder. _Light__, __give__ me __the __strength __to __see __my __final __hour __without __despairing__._

The scratching stopped, she hard a grunt before whatever it was tore off through the hallway, an agonizing scream pierced the walls minutes later. _That__ was__..._ Yanna closed her eyes. _It __doesn__'__t __matter__, __they __will __be __at __peace __soon__._ The screams had turned to shrieks that made her hair stand on end.

_A__ fever__-__dream__ is__ what __this __is__. __I__ will __wake__ well__-__rested __and__ will __realize __that __this __is __just __the __effect __of__ whatever __draught__ I __was __given __for __sleep__._ Yanna wished she could believe that. No one had been by their cell in two days to deliver food nor medicine. Her eyes flicked over to where Catherine lay in her bed, the skin on her face tightening made it look as if she were smiling. The wooden beads were pressed painfully between her fingertips.

_Compassion__._ Were they shown compassion when they were locked in their cells to die? "_We__'__re__ not __sick__!" _Catherine had shouted, banging on the heavy wooden door until she was hoarse and her knuckles bloody. Later, Catherine had begun to run a fever - "_The __flu__, __you __idiots__, __let __us __out__!" _-and started wasting away at an alarming rate. She had died, and when she first began to stir, Yanna had used a dull, ornamental dagger Catherine favored to cut her head off. Had she done the Sister a kindness? She hoped so, but it was unlikely that she would receive the same.

Yanna reached clumsily for the skin of water at her bedside. She paused, dropping the bag to the floor. She had taken small bites from the food on her plate, but she had not eaten since her fever started. There were maggots wriggling on the roasted bear meat and on the potatoes but the chunk of bread was ringed with dead maggots. _We __fed __the __faithful __the __sacrament __to __gain__ strength __from__ the__ Light__ to__ defeat __the __Shadow_. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly. Even now, she could remember the bishop explaining how the grain was the Light's gift to mankind. _I __fed __it __to__ children__._ she ground her teeth. _They __thanked__ me __for __it__!_ She laughed hysterically between screams. There was loud, banging sounds on the door. _It__'__s__ coming__ back_, a small part of her warned but Yanna laughed harder and drummed her heels on the bed.

The door splintered open and a small corpse regarded her almost warily. Its clothes now hung from its body in rags, the bishop's gold shawl was tied underneath its chin as if he had been hung by it - a mockery of the tenants it stood for. Yanna screeched and vaulted from the bed. _This__ is __wrong__! __I__ was __dying__! __I __should __be __dead__! _Now she had the thing by the neck, its feet kicking in the air while it scratched at the thin, bony arms she could only assume were her own. _This__ was __a __boy__! __Mercy__! __I __should __be __dead__, _she thought in horror. _I __should_- she ripped the boy's throat out, stuffing the hard cartilage with shreds of cloth in her mouth, chewing noisily.

Yanna's thoughts were eerily silent.

**Is**** a ****disclaimer ****necessary****? ****I****'****m**** not ****making****, ****nor ****do ****I ****intend**** to ****make**** money**** with**** any**** story**** I ****write ****using**** Activision****/****Blizzard****'****s ****World****of****Warcraft****. ****Unless ****they****'****d**** like**** to ****pay ****me****. ****Then**** I ****would ****thoroughly ****intend**** to ****make**** money****.**

This is a little of my undead priest's backstory. I had a lot of fun writing it so I thought I'd share and, hopefully, people will enjoy reading it. If I ever add on to this, it will most likely be a grouping of one-shots. Not likely to happen, though.


End file.
